The promise of peace had brought them all there. But that had been shattered the moment Jamon Albondigas spied Russell Copefield, the ambassador for the Cali cartel.

"You are a fool who works for fools," Albondigas spit viciously. The La Cosina drug lord was pudgy with a dark brown complexion. Even in the chilly air-conditioned hall, he perspired like a Venezuelan stevedore. Crescent moons of sweat stained the underarms of his white, open-necked shirt.

"If you and your brothers cannot compete..." Copefield shrugged in a delicate shift of Armani. The Cali agent was a New York lawyer in his midforties. His weasel's face was tugged forward in perpetual condescension.

"Cali is dead," Albondigas snarled. "We are the new power. My brothers and I have buried you."

"We'll see who'll be dead at the end of the day," the American lawyer taunted with infuriating smugness.

Albondigas gripped the edge of the huge table. Furious eyes darted to the double doors.

The bodyguards and hired killers waited beyond. Albondigas had brought with him a hulking Paraguayan with arms as wide around as tree trunks and a chest as broad and muscled as the hindquarters of a charging rhino. If Albondigas called, the giant would break down the door. The other bodyguards would follow him in, guns blazing. In the ensuing bloodbath, they'd all be killed.

Albondigas's face twitched with barely contained rage.

The others in the room glanced anxiously to the head of the table for guidance. For a soothing voice. For something to stop this madness. But only silence issued from the most prominent chair in the big room.

"You are very certain of yourself, gringo," Albondigas hissed abruptly.

The softness of his tone was jarring. All eyes returned to Albondigas.

"I'm paid to be certain," Copefeld replied tightly. There was something in his voice, in his eyes. Like a cornered animal. Almost as if he didn't believe what he was saying. Yet he did not back down.